Touch Therapy
by Lys ap Adin
Summary: Give Yamamoto an inch, and he'll try to take a mile. Hibari's not entirely sure he approves of that.


**Title: **Touch Therapy**  
Characters: **Hibari, Yamamoto**  
Summary: **Give Yamamoto an inch, and he'll try to take a mile. Hibari's not entirely sure he approves of that.**  
Notes:** Futurefic, smut, 2528 words.

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**Touch Therapy**

Kyouya thought nothing of it at the time, and very little after. He rarely did, when it came to being injured, save when an injury caused him inconvenience, and even then the attention he gave his injuries was just enough to figure out how to work around them as they healed. So, as far as he was concerned, being dangled by the arm by a particularly hulking member of the Barassi's goons simply brought him closer to the man's face, which made smashing the butt-end of his tonfa against the man's chin that much easier. The man dropped like a stone, and Kyouya rolled away from him.

Yamamoto had already finished the other guard, who was rolling around on the floor at Yamamoto's feet and groaning feebly. Yamamoto cocked his head to the side, Kyouya dipped his chin just a fraction in reply, and they went to finish what they had come to this warehouse to do--wreaking havoc with the man's supply operation in an effort to remind Giovanni Barassi that the Vongola were well aware of his side operation in smuggling, and would not tolerate it. As missions went, it was so simple that even the idiot cow could have done it, but Sawada had wanted the message to be clear--and, if Kyouya were honest with himself, had probably wanted to keep him busy while the Vongola business required the presence of all six of Sawada's Guardians.

As injuries went, it wasn't even significant; Kyouya had functioned with and through far worse things than a strained shoulder that had stiffened up by the evening. He paid it no mind at all as he and Yamamoto sowed havoc through the warehouse, and thought very little of it later, save to hiss a bit during his shower and as he dressed.

It almost figured that Yamamoto _would_.

"...what?"

Yamamoto, standing in the doorway of Kyouya's room, achieved new heights of oblivious idiocy and explained himself again, with a bland smile that made Kyouya's fingers itch for his tonfa. "Your arm. It looked like you were favoring it earlier. How's it doing?"

The man broke out into herbivorous displays at the most unexpected moments. "None of your business."

Yamamoto caught the door before Kyouya could slam it in his stupid sheep face. "I have something that might help it get better faster." He grinned. "It's no fun fighting with you when you're not in top form."

Kyouya studied him, but Yamamoto was as cheerfully opaque as he ever was. However, his priorities _seemed_ to be in order; after a moment, Kyouya stepped out of the doorway and let him in. "What is it?"

"Team secret." Yamamoto gestured; he was holding a small container of some sort. "Just something we use on sore muscles. Shirt off, please."

Kyouya bristled automatically, as much at the mention of Yamamoto's baseball team (stupid grouping tendencies taken to their extreme, there, and he couldn't fathom Yamamoto's passion for them) as at the orders. Yamamoto kept smiling at him, mild and patient, until Kyouya grudgingly shed his shirt and tie, and perched on the edge of his bed.

Something like approval flitted over Yamamoto's face, but apparently he knew better than to push his luck any further than he had, and kept quiet. It was a pity; winnowing through Barassi's guards earlier hadn't done much more than whet Kyouya's appetite for a good fight. An excuse to start something with Yamamoto would be--

Kyouya hissed as Yamamoto's hands pressed against his strained shoulder, slick with something that was warm and smelled of spices. Yamamoto's hands didn't still and kept working over his shoulder, slow and methodical, kneading the muscles loose. The sharp ache of them subsided to a more general throbbing; when Yamamoto asked, "This helping?" Kyouya admitted, reluctant as he was to do so, that it was.

He should have known better; Yamamoto assumed that was permission to keep going. He murmured something to himself, unintelligible but contented, and shifted his attentions to Kyouya's other shoulder.

Kyouya stiffened. "What are you--"

"Balance," Yamamoto said, cheerful. "Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

Kyouya growled from between his teeth--not that his doing so ever fazed Yamamoto. This time was no different; Yamamoto hummed something to himself and kept going, hands traveling over Kyouya's uninjured shoulder until the muscles there were loose and warm.

Obnoxious though Yamamoto could be, and currently was, Kyouya supposed that Yamamoto's hands weren't _wholly_ unpleasant.

He was much too fond of taking liberties where none were granted, too. Kyouya growled at him again when Yamamoto's hands slid down his arms, kneading over his deltoids and biceps. Yamamoto's responding laugh huffed across his shoulder, and he didn't stop.

The man was clearly up to something.

Kyouya frowned, and didn't stop him.

Yamamoto made another of his satisfied sounds and kept working, hands sliding up and down Kyouya's arms, thumbs following the tendons of his forearms. Kyouya suspected that his hands had to be tiring by this point, but Yamamoto seemed to be as indefatigable in this as he was anywhere else. Whatever idiotic impulse had given him this idea, Kyouya was forced to admit--privately--that Yamamoto did, perhaps, know what he was doing.

By the time Yamamoto took Kyouya's left hand between his and began circling his thumb over the palm, Kyouya was sufficiently relaxed to simply grunt at him. "You never stop presuming, do you?" he asked when Yamamoto set it down and shifted around to work on his right hand.

Yamamoto glanced up at him, mouth crooked. "Not till you tell me no."

That had an ominous sound to it. Kyouya narrowed his eyes, and opened his mouth to demand a clarification. Yamamoto delivered it before he could get a word out, by bending his head over Kyouya's hand and pressing his lips against the palm. And then he watched Kyouya from beneath his lashes.

It took Kyouya a long moment to decide between the conflicting impulses that presented themselves--whether he should evict Yamamoto immediately, with a tonfa to the gut for emphasis, or to wait and see what else Yamamoto planned on presuming. While he hesitated, Yamamoto waited, apparently for him to decide.

Well.

Kyouya drew a breath. "Congratulations. I hadn't thought you could be so subtle." That wasn't strictly true; Yamamoto did seem to be good enough at subtlety when he wanted to be, and better still at camouflaging himself. It was, however, no good inflating the idiot's ego.

Yamamoto laughed, and his breath tickled Kyouya's palm. "Only when I want to be," he said. He brushed his lips against the inside of Kyouya's wrist. "If there's something that needs it. Someone to appreciate it."

His lips were warm where they moved against Kyouya's skin. Kyouya regarded him for a moment. "There are," he said, finally, deciding, "times when subtlety is appropriate. And times when it is not."

Yamamoto's eyes gleamed. "Right," he said, and sat up.

Kyouya met him, curling a hand around Yamamoto's nape and drawing him in, and was gratified that Yamamoto had caught his full meaning: he kissed as intently as he fought and trained, without any reservations in it.

Kyouya supposed that was why he suffered the man's more foolish moments.

Yamamoto made another one of his sounds against Kyouya's mouth, this one eager, and his hands were warm as they stroked over Kyouya's chest and pressed him back. Kyouya frowned as he caught Yamamoto's shoulders and pulled him down, too; that didn't seem altogether fair. He hooked a finger in Yamamoto's tie and pulled it loose, and then slid his palm down Yamamoto's chest, flicking the buttons of his shirt open.

Yamamoto's mouth descended to his throat, which made it temporarily difficult to concentrate on extracting Yamamoto from his shirt. He growled at Yamamoto's breath of laughter, and bit down on the bare skin of Yamamoto's shoulder in retaliation. Yamamoto groaned, deep, and shuddered over Kyouya. Kyouya nipped at his throat, and Yamamoto groaned again, pressing against him. "Ah... yes..."

_That_ was an interesting response--and one that explained a great many things, too. Kyouya tasted Yamamoto's throat, hands traveling over the satisfyingly strong lines of his back, and arched into the hands that slid over his chest and stomach. "More," he commanded, and punctuated the order with another nip.

Yamamoto laughed, breathless, but his hands stayed steady as they dealt with the obstruction of their pants and underwear, even when Kyouya closed his mouth on his throat and sucked hard. "God," Yamamoto breathed, hands sliding down Kyouya's hips. "Hibari..."

"_More_," Kyouya told him, impatiently, since the time for hesitating had clearly passed. He pulled Yamamoto down against him and rolled their hips together, indulging himself in the smooth heat of Yamamoto's skin, bare against his.

Yamamoto shuddered again, and his mouth on Kyouya's was hot and wanting. His hands, however, were in marked contrast, and skated down Kyouya's sides to settle on his hips almost gently.

Kyouya couldn't fault him for being respectful, but--"Do I look like a blushing virgin to you?" he demanded, and surged up against Yamamoto, turning them and pinning Yamamoto against the bed.

He closed his teeth on Yamamoto's throat before Yamamoto could answer, and drank in the rich sound of Yamamoto's moan and the way Yamamoto arched against him, taut under his hands. "If you're going to do something, _do it_."

When he looked, Yamamoto's expression was bemused, but he let Kyouya's hands stroke down the long muscles of his thighs and spread them wide. "There's such a thing as savoring the process," he commented, tone mild, as Kyouya groped for the little tin of slick stuff Yamamoto had brought in with him.

"Who says I'm not?" Kyouya countered, and slid his fingers into Yamamoto in the same breath.

Yamamoto's answer was full-throated and inarticulate and altogether pleasing. Kyouya stroked his fingers deeper and twisted them, and was rewarded by hands that closed tight on his shoulders and hips that bucked into his touch. Kyouya leaned down to taste Yamamoto's mouth again, and twisted his fingers slow and hard as he did. This time, when Yamamoto moaned, it was the words _please_ and _yes_.

The sound he made when Kyouya curled his fingers as he slid them out to stroke more of the slick stuff over himself was wanting and open. "Hibari," he breathed, as Kyouya slid his palms down Yamamoto's thighs, catching them behind Yamamoto's knees to spread and hold them wide.

Kyouya paused for a moment to look at him--to savor the sight of Yamamoto, spread out and hard and wanting. "Yes," he murmured, and pressed into him.

Yamamoto groaned, hands sliding over Kyouya's back, and Kyouya arched over him as fire raced up his spine. "_Yes_," he hissed, drawing back and driving into Yamamoto again, shuddering with the intensity of the sensation rolling through him.

"God, yes," Yamamoto breathed, and drew Kyouya down to him, kissing him, mouth urgent. "Hibari..."

"Weren't you saying something about savoring the process...?" Hibari murmured, giving Yamamoto the smile he usually reserved for herbivores in need of a lesson about being stupid.

Yamamoto had just enough presence of mind to look worried at that. "Oh... oh, _fuck_," he whispered, as Kyouya took his hands and pinned them against the mattress.

That was very nearly the last coherent thing he managed to say.

Kyouya sought his mouth again and closed his teeth on Yamamoto's lower lip, nipping at the fullness of it as he fucked Yamamoto, each thrust slow and deep. Yamamoto gasped and shook under him, arching into the slow strokes and straining against Kyouya's hands. He cried out when Kyouya bit a slow path down his throat, and groaned when Kyouya sucked at the hollow of it, marking him. "Hibari... Hibari, _please_..."

"Mm," Kyouya murmured, very close to purring with the pleasure and the satisfaction winding through him. "Yes, I think so." He let his hips snap forward and fucked Yamamoto fast and hard.

Yamamoto cried out, voice gone ragged, and bucked against Kyouya as his pleasure took him. Kyouya drank in the sight of him, head thrown back and throat spotted with Kyouya's marks, and let the heat wash him down after Yamamoto, the long waves of it rolling through him, quick and fierce.

He released Yamamoto's wrists when the heat had finally let him go and subsided over Yamamoto, the glow of satiation making him reluctant to move just yet.

Yamamoto was the first to stir. "God," he said, and ventured to set a hand on Kyouya's shoulder, stroking it. "That wasn't exactly what I was expecting."

Kyouya growled, but by the time he'd raised his head to glare, Yamamoto was adding, hastily, "But it was a lot better!"

Kyouya weighed that against the smile Yamamoto was wearing, and snorted. "Idiot." He pushed himself off Yamamoto and sat up.

A fingertip traced down his spine. "Yeah, sometimes."

Kyouya snorted again and pulled away when it seemed like Yamamoto's fingers were inclined to keep on wandering, and went to find something to clean up with. When he returned, damp washcloth in hand, Yamamoto was fingering one of the marks on his throat. "I should have known you'd be a biter."

Kyouya dropped the washcloth on his chest. "I should have known you'd like it."

Yamamoto's sudden grin was blinding. "Yeah, probably." He wiped himself clean, and then held out a hand to Kyouya. "Come back to bed?"

"That's _my_ bed you're in," Kyouya reminded him.

Yamamoto's smile didn't even waver. "Just for a little while? Then I'll go."

Kyouya frowned at him, but that didn't budge him--but then, very little did, when Yamamoto was inclined to be stubborn, and unfortunately, Sawada wasn't here to make Yamamoto be sensible. "Herbivore," he told Yamamoto, and joined him.

Yamamoto, wisely, chose to say nothing at all to that.

**- end -**

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And then there's the alternate omake version of how things could have gone...

**Touch Therapy: Omake**

_It took Kyouya a long moment to decide between the conflicting impulses that presented themselves--whether he should evict Yamamoto immediately, with a tonfa to the gut for emphasis, or to wait and see what else Yamamoto planned on presuming. While he hesitated, Yamamoto waited, apparently for him to decide. _

_Well._

- * -

Takeshi fetched up against the wall opposite Hibari's door with a thud and the taste of copper and iron already filling his mouth. His tin of salve clattered after him and landed on his chest--open, of course--and began oozing over his shirt.

Hibari, with all the blazing fury of a cat whose dignity had been encroached upon, slammed the door.

Takeshi touched his split lip, gingerly. "That didn't go the way I hoped it would," he said, to no one in particular, as he heaved himself to his feet.

On the other hand, there had been that moment when Hibari's eyes had held a moment of speculation. And there was the fact that Hibari hadn't bothered to break anything. That was almost like a normal person saying, "Hey, you know what, give me some time to think about this, would you?"

Takeshi pressed his fingers to his lip to staunch the bleeding, and strolled off to his rooms. All things considered, he was willing to take this as a good start.

**- end -**

Comments are always appreciated!


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